Chevy-man or Ford-man?

As finished; you wouldn’t be able to duplicate this now. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Our house was built on an abandoned cornfield (above).
We designed the house. It’s super-insulated with foot-thick insulated exterior walls.
The ceilings are all eight-feet, with 22 inches of blown fiberglass on top.
I.e. No cathedral-ceilings, which accumulate wasted heat.
The house is surrounded with 10-mil vapor-barrier; usually it’s 3-mil.
We had to jump through hoops to get it.
10-mil is much thicker and less likely to tear.
That same vapor-barrier is under our concrete cellar-slab atop crushed stone.
That cellar has never leaked, even though the giant slab cracked.
Our foundations also have an extensive drainage system.
I think our builder was impressed by all this stuff.
We were doing things right, which he wanted to do.
The exterior shell has Tyvek® on it.
Building this house was somewhat a hairball. It was the last house he ever built.
I don’t think our builder took a drubbing — I saw him afterward driving a new pickup truck.
But he was over his head managing a crew; a bunch of lazy layabouts.
I used a builder I could work with.
We also were doing things a little differently.
We owned what was built, not the builder.
We were paying him as he went along.
We have over four-and-a-half acres.
It’s part of what was once a large farm-field east of State Route 65.
The field was first destined for development.
It was to be subdivided and perhaps 8-10 homes built.
But the Town of West Bloomfield wanted a frontage-road. They didn’t want all those driveways emptying on State Route 65.
The prospective developer backed out.
The field was then subdivided into three large lots and put back on the market.
Our lot was the highest, at the crest of a small rise on State Route 65.
Our driveway would empty right into the highest spot, for good sight-lines.
I remember being shown the lot by a young real-estate salesman we later backed away from.
He was a viper, and I had to do a grandstand.
We researched the lot directly with the listing real-estate company.
We bought it, although the previous owner carried our mortgage.
We eventually paid him off.
I began designing our house.
Input came from my wife to solve various problems our old house in Rochester had; particularly room-locations and walking paths.
E.g. No more tracking mud through the living-room — and that includes dogs.
Other things factored in; e.g. the kitchen had to be right next to the garage, and not having the laundry in the cellar or garage.
The garage also had to be big enough to swallow our van, and not hang up the mirrors driving in.
And keeping all water-lines inside the shell so they wouldn’t freeze.
We had to hire an architect to draw our plans, and spec various construction techniques. —He was getting input from us.
Behind all this was our builder, who had to implement our plans.
I liked his taste — they were my tastes.
He had already built at least two houses, one for himself, and one for his parents.
They looked great, with roof overhangs finished how I would do them.
We bid the house-project.
Our eventual builder drove a Ford pickup truck.
Another bidder drove a Chevrolet pickup.
Who do I want to build my house, a Chevy-man or a Ford-man?
We chose the Ford-man. I thought a Chevy-man might be too conservative.
Our builder carted his huge family in an E-250 Ford window-van.
I had a Ford E250 van of my own at that time.
Both our vans were gigantic 460 cubic-inch V8s.
I remember pulling out of his driveway once, and he was behind me.
He put the hammer down as he exited his driveway, wife and kids all akimbo.
TILT! Somebody like that has my business.
We have since let the cornfield reforest. We mowed paths into it.
When we first moved in, you could still find corn-stubble.
We didn’t reforest all of it, perhaps two+ acres.
The rest gets mowed.
When we first moved in, an outdoor sodium-vapor light on an old school-building, now an American Legion-Hall, far up the road, illuminated an inside north wall of our bedroom.
It shown through the entire length of our house, kitchen to bedroom.
It no longer does.
The reforested parts of our property now have trees 20-40 feet high.
We also installed a garden-shed that probably obstructs that light.

• “We” is me and my wife of almost 43 years, “Linda.”
• “Tyvek” is a one-way paper house-wrap made by DuPont. It breathes water-vapor out, but not in.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield on State Route 65 in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. State Route 65 is a north-south rural two-lane toward Rochester, but a main highway.

Endless Mountain Rails

There are Alcos on the point, plus a steam-locomotive. (Photo by Alex Mayes.)

The October 2010 issue of my National Railway Historical Society (NRHS) bulletin has a large report of their June convention in nearby Scranton, PA.
Every year the nationwide National Railway Historical Society, which I’m a member of, holds a national annual convention somewhere in the country.
It’s become a railfan event, rail excursions, and rare-mileage trips.
Rare mileage trips are over railroads that rarely see passenger service. Railfans pursue these trips to add to their mileage records. Of particular interest is riding railroads that never see passenger service, only freight.
I considered going to this convention. Scranton is only 5-6 hours away.
I’m a railfan, and have been since age 2 (I’m 66).
It includes Steamtown, a national park in the old Delaware, Lackawanna & Western (DL&W) roundhouse and yards.
Steamtown also has a few operating steam-locomotives.
I’ve ridden at least two Steamtown steam-locomotive excursions.
Restored antique diesel locomotives are nice, but there’s nothing like steam.
Sadly, Steamtown’s two operating excursion steam-locomotives are both Canadian, but an American steam-locomotive, Boston & Maine #3713, is being made operable there.
It’s not like the old days, when steam-locomotives were the norm. 3713 has been being restored for years.
“Endless Mountain Rails” pulled out all the stops.

Photo by Mike Salfi.

Lots of excursions were planned, and another restored steam locomotive was being brought in, ex Gulf, Mobile & Ohio Pacific (4-6-2) #425 (at left), now operated by Reading (“RED-ing;” not “REED-ing”), Blue Mountain & Northern, which operates many of the old Reading Railroad anthracite-coal branches in northeastern PA.
I didn’t go; too many unknowns.
As a stroke-survivor I can’t handle guessing-games.
I also know steam-locomotive excursions often go haywire.
I’ve done a few.
One got in at 3 a.m., six hours late.
Things can go wrong, and usually do.
Railfans are flexible, and can usually accept that.
But 3 a.m. was over-the-top.
And part of that was sitting dormant over two hours while a piddling single fire-hydrant filled two huge tenders of a steam-locomotive.
And at midnight the steam-locomotive ran out of coal.
We were in Erie, PA, and had to be rescued by diesel-locomotives from Buffalo.
And all that time we were kept in the dark. What little information I gleaned was from scanner-chatter; railroad radio scanners monitored by railfans.
To do Endless Mountain Rails I’d have to reserve hotel-space in an unknown city.
—Although the convention was gonna be based in Radisson Inn, the old DL&W Scranton station.
Plus, I’d have to find my way to railfan excursions, that might go haywire.
I chased trains in Altoona, PA (“al-TUNE-uh;” as in the name “Al”) that weekend with Phil Faudi (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”) instead.
Phil is the railfan extraordinaire who supplied all-day train-chases for $125. —I did one two years ago, alone, and it blew my mind.
Faudi had his rail-scanner along, tuned to 160.8, the Norfolk Southern operating channel, and knew the whereabouts of every train, as the engineers called out the signals, and various lineside defect-detectors fired off.
He knew each train by symbol, and knew all the back-roads, and how long it took to get to various photo locations — and also what made a successful photo — lighting, drama, etc.
I let Phil do the monitoring. I had a scanner myself, but left it behind.
Phil knew every train on the scanner, where it was, and how long it took to beat it to a prime photo location.
Phil is gonna give it up; fear of liability suits, and a really nice car he’s afraid he’d mess up.
With Faudi I wasn’t in the unknown.
Plus it’s railfan overload on a Faudi Adventure-Tour.
Trains willy-nilly!
It was our wildest Adventure-Tour yet; and the weather was fabulous, sky of blue without a single cloud.
My best photograph was at Alto (“al-toe;” as in the name “Al”) Tower in Altoona (below) with Faudi, about 8 p.m., sun going down (it’s June).


(Photo by BobbaLew.)

So my bulletin was a let-down.
Look what I missed!
Yeah, I missed passenger-coaches with failed air-conditioning, sweating by windows that wouldn’t open, in air that wouldn’t move.
And trying to find our hotel-room with 700 others.
Dog in the slammer.
With trains frequently passing Faudi and I, him nailing every one.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• Steam-locomotives boil water to produce steam. That water is stored in a tender behind the locomotive. Restored excursion steam-locomotives often draw two tenders, due to the lack of line-side water-towers any more. Steam-locomotives usually burn coal to boil the water, but sometimes fuel-oil if coal’s not readily available.

Stroke anniversary

I don’t think I did anything on this last year; 16 years.

Seventeen long years ago, on yesterday’s date, Tuesday, October 26, 1993, I got up about 2 a.m. to go to the bathroom.
Standing at the toilet, all-of-a-sudden POW! It felt like my whole being dipped and recovered.
We turned on the light. I had double-vision, my speech was slurred, and the left side of my face sagged.
All classic signs of a stroke, but we didn’t know them. Nor did we know what a stroke was.
If we had, we would have called 9-1-1 and gone to the hospital.
Clot-busting drugs probably. Save the brain.
A blood-clot had moved out of my heart and blocked blood-supply to my brain-stem. A thrombosis.
I was 49, in pretty good health, so now we had to figure out why I had a stroke.
I only weighed 140 pounds, and was running footraces.
Although my running had deteriorated slightly since moving to West Bloomfield.
I had just returned from a weekend train-chase in WV with my younger brother-from-Boston; Nickel Plate steam-locomotive #765 masquerading as Chesapeake & Ohio 2765, which it was quite like.
It had been an extraordinary adventure, but an arduous journey back home.
Eight hours of constant driving; time for blood-clots to form in my legs.
I figured I’d go back to bed; my alarm went off at 3 a.m. anyway.
At that time I was driving transit-bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
My run pulled out at 5:05 a.m., for which I had to get up at 3 a.m. to eat breakfast and make the long trip to work.
I was no better at 3 a.m., so called in sick; thus suddenly ending my 16&1/2 year career of driving bus.
Your brain-stem and cerebral cortex determines your personality, so my wife said goodbye to the person I had been, and welcomed the new “born-again” person I had become.
Not born-again in the religious sense, but a new personality.
Exasperated and angry with all the detriments that came with my stroke.
Fumble-fingered and “dropsy,” the dropping of things.
I also had to relearn simple things I had done for years; like tying shoes.
We called my doctor, and he said to get to the hospital right away.
I couldn’t drive, so my wife would have to.
She didn’t know the way.
Despite double-vision I directed her to the hospital.
We arrived about 10 a.m., and were told I’d had a stroke.
Into the Emergency-Room; take a number.
I was in that Emergency-Room at least 12 hours; my wife had to return home while I was still there.
By then it was dark, and our two dogs were outside.
Finally I was assigned a hospital-room, a double with others who appeared to be terminal.
I was in that hospital-room at least three weeks, and had at least three other neighbors.
Tests were done to determine why someone like me had a stroke.
Pay-dirt was ramming an ultra-sound probe down my esophagus to view my heart from inside. From outside my sternum was in the way.
I had a Patent-Foramen Ovale (“pay-tint fore-AYE-min oh-VAL-eee;” PFO).
This is a defect between the top two heart chambers; they’re not fully sealed from each other.
The top two chambers aren’t sealed from each other before birth, but are supposed to seal after birth.
About 25% of adults have PFOs.
Blood can pass through the PFO.
A clot which had formed in my legs made it up into my heart, passed through the PFO, and headed for my brain.
Normally (without a PFO), such a clot would get directed toward my lungs, where it would probably dissipate.
But it went to my brain instead, causing the stroke.
It’s the same reason New England Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi (“brew-skeee”) had a stroke — and at a young age.
The hospital wanted to do open-heart surgery right away to repair the PFO.
But I deferred — I was too messed up to make sense of anything.
My doctor appeared, and told my wife I’d be a vegetable.
That made me mad.
“I’m gonna prove you wrong, Doc,” I bellowed.
Probably indiscernible gibberish.
It became obvious to my wife I was no longer normal when I couldn’t reset my digital wrist-watch with the change back to Standard Time.
We started walking the hallways of that hospital; me and my wife keeping me from falling.
My left side walking worked fairly well, or so I thought.
I should be able to at least walk, I thought.
I was supposed to ring for a nurse when I needed to go to the bathroom.
I got sick of waiting.
I was gettin’ to that bathroom myself even if I had to hold the wall.
My room-neighbors loved my spunk.
“He’ll make it,” they used to say.
I was moved by ambulance to another hospital across Rochester. It had an in-patient stroke-rehabilitation unit.
They wanted to tie me into a wheelchair, but I managed to avoid it.
Be a good boy.
They also sent me home occasionally.
At home the wheelchair was put away.
I was stumbling around without it somehow.
Usually I could.
I discovered my left arm was almost completely dysfunctional.
No matter, left hand on the staircase railing — we’re makin’ that thing work.
What I was inadvertently doing was rewiring my brain; making what remained do what the killed parts had done.
The scuttlebutt was when you could make that long staircase, you were released.
I got so I could, so home I went.
My wife’s mother was there to help if needed— I would have none of it.
I wasn’t being helped by someone who had once scowled at me.
I started doing outpatient rehabilitation at Rochester Rehabilitation Center.
A cabbie would cart me there, since I wasn’t yet cleared to drive.
Returned home I would walk our road out front to avoid my wife’s mother.
She tried to play dominoes with me, but it was awful.
I started putting puzzles together — brain-work — got up to 1,000 pieces, after starting with 60.
Also played Solitaire on our Windows computer.
Got so I always won.
And my motorcycle was waiting.
At the second hospital I was told my motorbike days were over.
But no-one tells me that!
My other younger brother in DE suggested I try the motorcycle when I could ride bicycle.
I got so I could ride bicycle, so I tried the motorcycle.
Riding motorbike was a little different than before the stroke, but I could do it.
People tell me I’m a miracle because of that.
I’m not so sure.
Later I attended Rochester Rehab for a psychiatrist appointment, and one of my cabbies was just starting stroke rehabilitation.
I had rode up there on motorcycle.
“You look fine,” he said, shaking and a mess. “What’s your secret?”
“Ornery,” I said. “If you think you can do it, you probably can.”
So now 17 years have passed since that life-changing day.
I’ve pretty much recovered all my functions.
There are a few minor remaining detriments; e.g. -1) degraded balance (better since the YMCA), -2) compromised speech (difficulty putting words together for speech; I can’t argue, or talk fast), -3) lability (the tendency to cry, although I have it pretty much under control), -4) poor motor (especially finger) control, and its related -5) dropsy (the tendency to drop things), and -6) making mistakes and forgetting things. I don’t have all my marbles.
But I pass for normal — people always tell me “I’d never know you had a stroke.”
I’ve met quite a few other stroke-survivors at the YMCA; one a guy who partially lost his left side.
His stroke was five years ago.
I told him any more my efforts seem to be more fighting off old age, not counteracting the stroke.
A live Christmas tree we planted shortly after my stroke is now over 20 feet high.
When we planted it, it was about three feet high.
And we slammed it rather haphazardly into the hole; we didn’t expect it to survive.
It was mostly my wife who planted it.
I was too spastic at that time.

• “We” is me and my wife of almost 43 years, “Linda.”
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. We used to live in Rochester.
• My wife is also “automotively challenged;” driving is fearsome.
• I can reset my wrist-watch.

Roulette scale

191.5 pounds, reported our supposedly fantabulous Wal*Mart roulette scale, Sunday, October 24, 2010.
“Sounds kinna high,” I thought to myself; “but if you say so.”
So I set all the cardio-machines I work out on in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym to 192 pounds yesterday, October 25, 2010.
That’s three pounds higher than previous.
Finished my workout, I weighed myself on the YMCA medical scale, the one I go by.
184.5, it said.
“That’s more like it,” I thought to myself.
I have been slowly losing weight since working out, and reducing my food intake.
184.5 is still overweight.
A seven pound discrepancy.
Not the first time, but the highest discrepancy ever.
I have a hard time imagining I’d burn off seven pounds while working out.
Maybe two, or at the most three.
Our fantabulous roulette scale was purchased at Mighty Wal*Mart in Canandaigua, which my siblings all tell me is the best store in the entire universe.
And the fact I avoid it proves I’m reprehensible and of-the-Devil.
After all, Jesus shopped Wal*Mart, I was told.
I avoid it because of two bad shopping experiences:
—1) was being kissed by a urine-smelling geezer greeter, and
—2) was being snapped at by two store associates for interrupting their day-long donut break having the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to ask where something was.
“Wal*Mart has everything!” I’m loudly told by my siblings.
Years ago we tried to find new dish-towels at Wal*Mart, and “Is this all they got?” my wife said. “I thought Wal*Mart had everything!”
Our roulette scale is “Taylor,” but I doubt it was manufactured at their West Ave. plant in nearby Rochester, NY.
“Made in China,” it said.
“Probably by Chinese child prison labor,” I said.
Railroad-trains of double-stacked J.B. Hunt containers pass on the old Pennsylvania Railroad through Altoona, PA (“al-TUNE-uh;” as in the name “Al”).
200 or more per train.
“Probably more product for Wal*Mart,” I say. “Product from China.”
It’s be nice if that scale was accurate, but it’s not.
Often its digital readouts are just plain incredible.
Made in China, and purchased at Wal*Mart, the finest store in the entire universe.

• “Canandaigua” (“cannon-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.
• “We” is me and my wife of almost 43 years, “Linda.”
• “Taylor” Instruments, based in Rochester, NY.
• “J.B. Hunt containers” are 53-foot domestic containers, not shippable on container-ships. (Shipping containers [international] are limited to 40 feet.) —The containers can be trailered, once wheels are added. They look like highway trailers.

I prefer classical music

I wonder at times how I came to prefer classical music.
It certainly wasn’t my parents.
Although they did buy a Reader’s Digest compendium of abridged classical music with their RCA 45-rpm record-player.
Remember 45s? —I still have a couple, and a turntable that will play them.
That compendium went unplayed for a long time, but in high-school, about 10 years after purchase, I began playing the finale of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture over-and-over.
My parents were not into classical music.
Sometimes I think it was my second piano-teacher, the infamous Mrs. Dager (“day-grrr”).
Mrs. Dager was the organist at the church our family attended.
She played a Hammond B3, not a pipe-organ.
She was also the church choir-director.
My first piano-teacher was Hilda Walton, our next-door-neighbor.
She was also the Sunday-School Superintendent.
Both Mrs. Dager and Mrs. Walton were severe taskmasters.
With Mrs. Walton it was “Curve your fIngers! Pretend you have a tomato under your hand.”
She used the John Thompson books.
Mrs. Dager’s greatest thrill was to get me and my sister crying.
She had me practicing Clemente and 32nd-note arpeggios. All extremely difficult.
She wanted to make me a Billy Graham pianist; flashy chords and florid rolling improvisation.
But I was hornswoggled by Jerry Lee Lewis.
“Come on over, baby. Whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.”
Mrs. Dager arranged for me and my sister to attend a children’s concert by the Philadelphia Orchestra.
I doubt it was Eugene Ormandy, but they played Finlandia and Dvorak’s (“dvor-ZHAK;” as in “ah”) New World Symphony.
By then I was 10 or 11, and tunes therein stayed in my head a long time.
I rode my bicycle on wooded trails to both.
But in high-school, in a different state (DE) instead of south Jersey, I gravitated to the 1812 Overture.
My band-director had a hi-fi in his office with the famous Mercury LP collection.
He let me play the conclusion of 1812 over-and-over.
I got so I could predict it.
His idea was to get our concert-band to play a band version of 1812.
An adjacent high-school had won the state band competition playing 1812.
But it was impossible.
Us reeds — I played Alto Saxophone — were playing the difficult violin parts, lotsa runs.
To play it would have meant hours of practice. We weren’t interested.
I would say where I went to college had a lot to do with my eventually preferring classical music.
It was nearby Houghton College (“HO-tin;” as in “oh,” not “how” or “who”), about 70 miles south of Rochester, in Western NY.
I’ve never regretted it, although I graduated as somewhat a Ne’er-do-Well.
Houghton is an ardent religious college, and they didn’t approve of me.
But they did have a strong music program, with respectable professors who rubbed off.
Houghton had a fabulous pipe-organ in its large Chapel-Auditorium.
Every day they held a voluntary chapel service, and we students, perhaps 1,000, would sing hymns to organ accompaniment.
We were supposed to sing in unison on the last verse, and the organist, Charles Finney, would “hymn-provise.”
I never sung the last verse.
I’d stand in awe listening to Finney “hymn-provise.”
Often he’d pull it off, and sometimes he’d work himself into a corner.
Discordant chords he could’t prettily segue out of.
But most times he didn’t, and it was glorious.
I was probably the only one attracted to this — others decided he was showing off.
Chords of my own were in my head I hoped he’d play.
Which he might play, but other times he might educate me with something different but also glorious.
Most attractive was his pulling off discordances and then successfully segueing out.
And it was his pipe-organ. He designed it, designed as a baroque organ, not schmaltz.
As a result of Finney, I came to appreciate Bach.
After college, it was back to rock-n-roll, particularly Led Zeppelin.
Led Zeppelin was mostly okay, but there was stuff that was boring.
When we first got married in the late ‘60s (December of ’67), it was Led Zeppelin on my wife’s Sears phonograph, at full volume.
I had to tape quarters to the tonearm.
And WBBF AM-95 (950) on our radio.
Pop music, with rock-n-roll on the phonograph.
That lasted through the early ‘70s. I played WCMF — underground radio —in my photographic darkroom.
Joni Mitchell, The Doors, and Jimi Hendrix.
But I was tiring of it, so I started listening to WXXI, the classical-music public-radio station out of Rochester, 91.5 FM.
It was easier to take than pop-radio, as long as they didn’t play opera in the morning (which they didn’t).
I started listening to Karl Haas, and came to appreciate far more than Bach.
So now I am probably the only child in my family who prefers classical music, although my sister in south Florida, the one who accompanied me on that Philadelphia Orchestra children’s concert, plays piano and loves 1812.
My brother-in-Boston prefers country — PLINKA-PLANKA-TWANG — and I should be like him.
But I’m not.
I prefer classical music.
Too many pieces are in my head, and I know what comes next.

• Evangelist “Billy Graham.”
• The “Mercury LP Collection” was a collection of classical music — this is 1961-1962. “LP” stands for “Long-Playing,” 33&1/3 rpm vinyl records. LPs became prominent after 1962.

I’m not Mario Andretti

Prettiest crotch-rocket ever. (Photo by BobbaLew)

The other day (last Thursday, October 21, 2010) we had a man from a local HVAC contractor come out to service our tankless water-heater.
A tankless water-heater is just that; it’s not trying to keep 40 gallons of water hot in a holding-tank.
It heats the water as it passes through, thereby saving the cost of trying to constantly keep 40 gallons of water hot.
I.e. it’s only heating the hot-water you use.
It’s an appealing idea; supposedly to save on your gas-bill.
But I don’t think it has.
The average 40-gallon tank-type water-heater will run out of hot-water before you finish your shower.
So you slow the flow-rate to a trickle, and/or shorten your shower.
A tankless water-heater will supply hot-water at a higher flow-rate constantly — it won’t run out.
I end up using about the same amount of gas per month with the tankless.
This was despite incentives to switch to tankless.
Reminds of our lo-flow toilet, which supposedly saves water by using less per flush.
Except I flush it a lot.
Some uses require two flushes — either that or plug.
So I’m using way more water with that lo-flow toilet.
Seems every service-man that’s ever visited notes my motorcycle (above) in the garage.
Our plumber, our furnace service-man, landscapers, fence installers, electricians, that water-heater guy.
It’s a yellow 2003 Honda CBR600-RR.
“That your Honda out there?
I’m surprised to see....”
“....Someone my age riding a motorcycle like that,” I interjected (I’m 66).
“Isn’t that uncomfortable, riding in a racing-crouch?”
“That’s what I prefer,” I said. “Same as a 10-speed racing bicycle.
That’s what I’m familiar with.
My first motorcycle, a Norton, was sit-up-and-beg.
About the most I could do was 55 mph. Beyond that it was hang-on-for-dear-life. I felt like I was gonna get blown off the seat.”
“I have an old Yamaha 650, and am considering getting another motorcycle. I doubt I could do a racing-crouch.”
“I’m 66 years old,” I said. “This is my last motorcycle.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “How about that one-liter BMW; you’d be the fastest guy around.”
“Don’t need it,” I said. “This thing is way faster than me. It’s red-lined at 15-grand, but I doubt I ever had it higher than nine. All I do is putt.
I’m not Mario Andretti.”

• “Mario Andretti” is a retired car-racing driver, still alive. He won the Indianapolis 500 in 1969, and also the Formula-One driver’s championship in 1978. He also won the Daytona 500 in 1967.
I consider him to be the greatest racing-driver of all time.
• “HVAC” is heating/ventilation/air-conditioning.
• A “one-liter BMW” is a new crotch-rocket motorcycle by BMW with one liter of engine-displacement — 1,000 cubic centimeters. It’s extremely fast, 180 horsepower.
• RE: “It’s red-lined at 15-grand, but I doubt I ever had it higher than nine.....” —15,000 revolutions-per-minute, 9,000 revolutions-per-minute. Red-line is what RPM the engine is limited to; often the engine has a rev-limiter that cuts out the ignition at red-line. 15,000 is extremely high speed; most car-engines are red-lined at 6-7,000 rpm. —The reason crotch-rockets are so powerful is because their engines are capable of such high RPM.

Another quarterly meeting.....

..........of the dreaded 282 Alumni drifts into the filmy past.
This was yesterday (Wednesday, October 20, 2010).
Perhaps 25-30 were in attendance.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees (Local 282, the Rochester local of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union) of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit, management versus union.
Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years.
My employ there ended in 1993 with my stroke; and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then. The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
It isn’t just a social club.
It has bylaws, officers, and an Executive Board.
In many ways it’s just like our union-local, except it entertains issues of interest to retirees; like Medicare, healthcare, and diabetes and Alzheimer’s.
Joe Carey (“Carry”), the retired president of Local 282, mentioned the importance of colonoscopies — he’s done it himself.
So have I (we); but they seem to be a fragile topic.
A loud “Ewwwwwwww” erupted from the crowd.
I get the feeling many in attendance never do colonoscopies.
I always feel a little out-of-it at these shindigs, like the only reason I’m there is because like the others I drove bus for Transit.
Like them, I am experienced.
Transit could be difficult. Many of management were complete jerks.
So too were many of the hourlies, who were unionized, which led to constant insane union/management bickering.
Beyond that was our clientele, who could be rancorous and cantankerous.
It was possible to avoid the complete idiots by picking runs accordingly, usually Park-and-Rides.
But it was hard to avoid madness; muggings and mayhem.
I was bopped over the head by a Senior with her umbrella when I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to request Senior ID as required by rule.
Another time I had a passenger try to strangle me. —It was the last time I wore anything other than a clip-on tie.
Okay, be sociable this time.
Skip breakfast at home, and order just like the others.
Pancakes and sausage. —Looks interesting.
Never again!
The pancakes were like lead — soggy and semi-cooked.
They reminded me of the single pancake I once got at Inlow’s Restaurant near Altoona (“al-TUNE-uh;” as in the name “Al”), PA.
At the insistence of my all-knowing brother-from-Boston.
They were cooked by a bloated greaseball, in bacon-grease; I was told I needed to see that guy — a person who obviously liked to eat.
My brother likes to eat too. (He weighs almost 250 pounds.)
The Alumni pancakes were hardly the pancakes we get at Mighty Perkins in Altoona.
Altoona is the location of Horseshoe Curve (the “Mighty Curve”), by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve was a trick by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is now a national historic site.
I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child. —I’ve been there hundreds of times, since it’s only about five hours away, and I had dragooned my brother into visiting.
Two retired bus-drivers sat across from me, Gary Colvin (“Coal-vin”) and Joe Libonati (“lih-bih-NOT-eee”).
Libonati is after my time, I think, which ended with my stroke in late October of 1993.
It was Libonati and I that tried to help Art Dana remove the steering-box out of his hot-rod 1949 Ford.
Art was the retired bus-driver from Regional Transit with fairly severe Parkinson's disease.
Art's wife was gone, so he lived with his sister Vicki in Pittsford. He was 69.
Art and I had similar interests, hot-rod cars and trains.
Art is recently deceased.
The steering in his ’49 Ford was sloppy, so he drove it all the way to my house out here in West Bloomfield, because I have a pit.
That was two summers ago.
We failed, but there was a trick to it.
Art had his friend Louie come out, and he had it out in a jiffy.
All it was was removing the floorboards.
I guess Louie has a couple Shoebox Fords himself; ‘49-‘51.
Louie and Art rebuilt the steering-box, reinstalled it, and Art drove home.
“Whaddya think of calling Vicki?” Colvin asked Libonati.
Art had a massive collection of HO model-train equipment, and Colvin is a model-train nut himself.
“Johnny was gonna call me, but hasn’t,” Colvin said.
Johnny is Vicki’s live-in boyfriend, or husband — I never knew.
A really nice guy, who also took care of Art.
Art had lots of stuff, but could never do anything with it — the Parkinson’s.
All he could do was a simple running-track.
“Well, I don’t think it would hurt,” I interjected.
“Over a month has passed,” Colvin said.
Carey began talking about Medicare, a supposed continual wrestling-match.
“We all have Excellus-Extended,” Carey said.
“Not this kid,” I was tempted to shout.
“Excellus-Extended,” a local Blue Cross-Blue Shield plan, is the health insurance most retired with.
But not me.
I’m part of MVP, a local Medicare-Advantage plan.
It was recommended by Transit to replace a healthcare insurance that was no longer going to be offered by Blue Cross-Blue Shield.
Carey listed all the hoops you hafta navigate to get Medicare to pay stuff.
Well, two things:
—1) I don’t feel like my whole world is tumbling in.
When I pursue healthcare, Medicare is primary and pays its part, and MVP pays most of the rest.
I have a copay of $5-$20 or so.
Same with prescriptions, I guess.
Medicare Part D, as part of MVP.
I usually have a slight copay, sometimes as much as $85 for non-generic drugs. (Usually it’s nowhere near that much.)
I also work out at the Canandaigua YMCA. MVP pays my YMCA membership — their “Silver-Sneakers” program.
So I don’t have diabetes or all the health dramas most others have.
I also have only two prescriptions, not 20; and am nowhere near the “donut-hole.”
It also may be what I eat; not quantity, and healthy I guess.
I watch as diabetes patients pour tons of sugar into their coffee.
Mine is black decaf.
—2) People were tiring of all the so-called “high-finance.”
People began walking out — “we got other things to do.”
A retired bus-driver was being a lightning-rod, but he was asking Carey questions specific to his case.
Jim Douty (“doubt-eee”), another ex-driver with part of a leg amputated, and using a prothesis, wondered aloud if the other guy was a spokesman, and if he qualified.
“Shaddup, Douty!” Colvin snapped: “or I’ll take off your other leg.”
Demonstrating why Colvin was successful driving bus. A wisecracker.
We’re all like that; a pack of ne’er-do-wells.
I feel sorta out-of-it, but it’s always great to hear and see all these blowhards.
“Hank, how ya doin’? That was me at that hospital.”
Finally, “this meeting is adjourned” from Alumni president Steward Broadhurst.
“Aw, is that it?” Colvin asked. “Ya mean I gotta go home to my wife?”
Somehow I think Colvin was mainly blowin’ smoke. His wife ain’t that bad.
Mine neither. I’m sure not unhappy to go home.
What I abhor is these Alumni meetings at the Blue Horizon Restaurant, a cockroach-infested dive that’s falling apart.
Their rest-rooms stink of urine, and the toilet-seat fell off in my hand when I lifted it.

• “Dreaded” because all my siblings are flagrantly anti-union.
• “We” is me and my wife of almost 43 years, “Linda.”
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• The ‘49-‘51 Fords were called “shoeboxes,” because of their squarish styling.
• “HO” scale is 3.5 mm (0.14 in) equals one real foot (1:87.086). HO rails are 16.5 mm (0.650 in) apart; half-O-gauge. HO is the most popular model-railroad gauge, mainly because it’s small and can more accurately model things.
• The “Blue Horizon Restaurant“ is an old restaurant across from the Rochester International Airport. It’s getting our business probably because it’s cheap.

200 Horsepower

2011 ZX-10R. (Photo by Jeff Allen.)

“200 Horsepower,” my November 2010 issue of Cycle World screamed on its cover.
It’s the 2011 Kawasaki ZX-10R (above), a liter-bike (one liter engine displacement, 1,000 cubic centimeters).
My first reaction was “sheesh!”
A friend bewails 400 horsepower in automobiles.
He has a point.
Traffic is so bad you’re often stopped in traffic-jams just idling.
This is not true of Rochester, but in Los Angeles it is.
I remember 1-2 mph in Hollywood.
Dodging giant black Hummers with glittering chrome-alloy spider-wheels.
400 horsepower in a car seems pointless.
Where do you stretch it out?
And how do you pay for all the speeding tickets?
But 200 horsepower in a motorcycle is insane.
A car might weigh 3,000 pounds or more.
A liter-bike crotch-rocket might weigh 400 pounds or less.
And 200 horsepower comes at 14,000 rpm (revolutions-per-minute) or more.
You gotta be pumpin’ that kind of revs to wick the torque output up to 200 horsepower.
A few months ago a young kid crested a hill on a nearby country road at 89 bazilyun miles-per-hour, revved to the moon on his liter-bike.
He smashed head-on into a pickup truck turning left.
Snuffed him.
They couldn’t blame the four-wheeler.
If the bike had not been going so fast, he mighta been able to stop; or the pickup might have seen him.
He was probably putting 130 or more horsepower to pavement.
200 horsepower is even sillier.
About 200 yards north of our house is a sharp 90-degree left turn toward the west.
It’s posted at 15 mph.
It used to be a four-way intersection, but the state highway we live on turns west at that point, so the intersection was regraded.
Motorcycles do that curve at 50 mph or more — maximum lean.
And then accelerate past our house.
Often wound to the moon.
Other way too.
Revved to the moon approaching that intersection.
The speed-limit in front of our house is 40 mph.
The crotch-rockets blast by at 100+.
And it’s always crotch-rockets.
The Harleys might get about 80.

Photo by BobbaLew.

My 2003 Honda CBR-RR.

I have a so-called “crotch-rocket” myself (pictured at left in my garage).
Prettiest crotch-rocket of all, I think.
It’s 600 cubic centimeters, not a liter-bike, but fast enough.
In fact, it’s way faster than me.
Fast enough to put the kibosh on any car.
One time I was stopped at a traffic-light, and a ratty Honda car pulled up on my right.
His obvious intent was to put the kibosh on me.
When the light changed I put the kibosh on him.
Left him in my dust.
Probably putting 35 or more horsepower to pavement; I doubt I exceeded 8,000 rpm.
No drama, no theatrics, just left him behind.
Unleash 200 horsepower in first gear and I bet you pop a wheelie the whole time you’re in that gear.
You’d probably wheelie in every gear.
What price drama?
My motorcycle is red-lined at 15,000 rpm, but 8,000 was plenty.
15,000 rpm with a 600 cc CBR-RR is around 100 horsepower. I don’t need or even want it.

• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield on State Route 65, southeast of Rochester, NY. (“We” is me and my wife of almost 43 years, “Linda.”)

Is it my eyes..........

......Do they look kindly and soulful?
It can’t be anything else.
I’m 66 years old; hardly a specimen of youthful vim and vigor.
A buxom young cutie, young enough to be my granddaughter — or even great-granddaughter — is following me like a little puppy around the Exercise-Gym at the Canandaigua YMCA.
I go into the Stretching-Area; she follows me.
I head toward the Cybex® strength-training machines; she takes over the leg-press I was headed for.
I look in the mirror; I see a semi-hunched little old man, somewhat obese, with thinning silver hair.
What, pray tell, can she possibly see in me?
Or so it seems — I’m probably imagining this.
The other day she nearly ran into me.
“Excuse me!” she chirped.
Made me appreciate my wife.
No matter how cute or physically attractive the competition is, what matters is what’s between the ears.
My wife hasn’t turned into an ugly monster, as women sometimes do as they age.
That helps, but what matters is that she’s a mocker like me, and still laughs at my sickish jokes.
I’ve worked out at the Canandaigua YMCA four years or more.
During that time the Exercise-Gym was remodeled, and the YMCA itself expanded.
Three days per week every week, or at least two days — sometimes appointments interfere.
I’m one of the regulars; there are a few.
Earlier regulars disappeared.
Cutie has showed up only two days so far, and doesn’t seem too serious.
What she seemed to be doing was following me, yet not be too obvious about it.
Years ago, when I first worked at the Daily Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua, I befriended another girl much younger than me.
We got along great; but I always had the feeling she was a little depressed I was so much older than her.
—Like I would have made a good boyfriend.
Another case of my eyes doing it.
Girls (some girls) perceive I’m not a rapacious punk, hot to score a killing.
Well, I guess I’m not.
But my old rule always applies. It has all my life; a lot of really cute girls got tossed aside because of it.
What matters is what’s between the ears.
Her “excuse me” blew it.

My last bus-story........

....for the time-being.

Shortly after my stroke I discovered the muse was still there.
A stroke destroys brain-tissue; in my case it was a blood-clot, same kind of stroke New England Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi (“brew-skee”) had.
My stroke was October 26, 1993, and a lot was messed up.
Speech was a mess at first, and my whole left side was useless.
All of that eventually came back. —What brain-tissue was left had taken over.
My speech is still slightly compromised — difficulty finding words and assembling them for speech.
I can’t jabber like those radio advertising guys, and I can’t argue.
But I can pass as normal.
In high-school my 12th-grade English teacher told me I could sling words together extraordinarily well.
I thought him crazy, but I guess I can.
I been doin’ it since college.
I fell into motorsports coverage for a weekly newspaper in the early ‘70s in Rochester, and started a union newsletter at Transit in 1992.
I was the newsletter’s sole editor and producer; a volunteer — I used Word.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke ended that.
The bus-driving job was supposed to be temporary, but I stayed with it because it was okay.
It also paid pretty well.
It was that union newsletter where I found my voice.
I didn’t have time for self-editing; just pick up the shovel, and start shoveling.
I could depend on the muse; the talent to sling words together pretty well.
I’d use it to tell stories, which people loved to read.
This story was bouncing around before the stroke, and I found it still bouncing around immediately after my stroke.
Writing was impossible — too messy — so my wife tried to take dictation in my hospital-room.
When I finally returned home I found the muse was still cookin’.
It was like finding the old me.
This story has never been written, so has been kicking around almost 17 years.
I was driving an afternoon Park-and-Ride to East Rochester and Fairport, suburbs east of Rochester.
I had 417 bus, on the Eastern Expressway, Interstate-490.
I had shot The Can, and was headed for the Fairport Road exit.
It was snowing, and roads were icy. —I had to go slowly.
I angled onto the Fairport Road exit, about 20-30 mph.
UH-OH! All four corners are sliding.
Here we go! A bouncing roller-coaster ride across the frozen tundra. Thank goodness it was open with no ditches.
I sawed furiously at the wheel correcting slides, but a big hand came down from the sky, and directed 417 back onto the cloverleaf.
The ramp straightened, but there was another curve ahead.
More wheel-sawing; again, all four corners were sliding.
But again a big hand dropped from the sky, and directed 417 toward Fairport Road.
“Whew!” I said.
“What was that all about?” asked my regular riding shotgun.
“I didn’t notice anything.”

• “Muse” defined: “a woman, or a force personified as a woman, who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.”
• The “weekly newspaper” was City/East (now just “City”).
• Microsoft’s word-processor computer software is “Word.”
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “417” was a Park-and-Ride bus, a “fishbowl,” but with a large V8 engine and a three-speed transmission. Some could go quite fast.
• The “Eastern Expressway, Interstate-490” is the main connector into Rochester from the east to the NY State Thruway, Interstate-90.
• RE: “The Can.....” —The Can-of-Worms (so-called) was an old expressway interchange southeast of Rochester, built in the ‘60s. It was difficult to get through. The “Can” was reconfigured a while ago (Old Can and New Can), taking out little-used railroad trackage, making it much easier to negotiate. There were various tricks to “shooting the Can” with a bus. Most difficult was a lane change smack in the middle of the Old Can.

Racing with Betty Mitchum

Over the 16&1/2 years I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs, I drove Main St., the dreaded 800-line, hundreds of times.
This was despite the fact I hated it. It was too busy, and could be a killer.
My last run before my stroke was a straight-eight on Main St. Eight straight hours on the same bus.
No let-up; only one break the whole eight hours.
Otherwise it was stop at every stop to let passengers on and off, and zoom through the layovers, changing signs on the fly.
Straight-eights were the exception; there were only three out of hundreds of runs.
Dave Stright (“straight”), number-one in seniority at that time, the only one who had driven trolley-cars, picked one, as did another old head.
Two straight-eights were on Main St., the third was on another line.
Stright picked one of the Main St. runs, the other guy the other line.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for RTS. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
I picked the third straight-eight, the remaining 800-line.
By then I was fairly high in seniority, and no one else had picked it.
Main St. always had a strong logistical advantage, that it changed drivers right in front of the Barns, which were on E. Main St.
Other bus-lines changed drivers other places, eventually all downtown.
Changing drivers downtown meant you had to transport yourself there, and/or back to the Barns, if that was where your car was parked.
With the 800 you just walked out front to take over your bus, or directly to your car when done.
Changing drivers downtown might add 45 minutes to an hour to your daily time commitment. 13 hours alarm-to-garage-at-home, versus 12 with the 800.
It’s why I picked that straight-eight.
I was done at 1:30, Stright at 1.
E. Main St. stretched three-four miles all the way from downtown Rochester to the eastern outskirts of the city.
At its end the line went either of two ways, both in outlying residential areas.
It passed a high-school and Senior towers. That end was always busy.
By 1993 I had an hour to make the entire trip; out and back to downtown.
It was rarely enough time; I was always flying through the layovers, calling the radio to tell how late I was.
“Take it through; see what you can do......”
W. Main St. went three-four miles all the way to Bulls Head, a main intersection with Genesee (“Jen-uh-SEE”) St. from the south, and Brown St. from the northeast.
It was called “Bulls Head” because the head of a bull had been carved into the top stone wall-cap of a building overlooking Main St.
Actually, Main St. went slightly past the intersection.
The intersection was the confluence of four bus-lines, three of which turned down Genesee St.
Main St. ended there splitting into two main streets, Chili (“chye-lie; “ not the country or the food) Ave. to the west-southwest, and West Ave. to the west.
Chili went all the way to Chili Center, a suburb west of Rochester.
West Ave. fell parallel to the old New York Central Railroad (now CSX) at its end, ending at the State Barge Canal, which it didn’t cross.
The 800-line could go either way, although when I started West Ave. was still its own bus-line.
Before crossing the city-line the 800-line could go either of two ways.
It could could continue out to Chili Center, or turn south onto Genesee Park Blvd.
Genesee Park Blvd. was a wide boulevard skirting a residential area.
It eventually ended at Genesee Park, a large park southwest of Rochester.
When I first started we were looping in a bumpy old tree-shaded trolley-loop in the park.
With that closed we began looping (and laying over) in a spot near the park swimming-pool.
Now the 800 goes clear across the Genesee river to Strong Hospital — people at Strong were incensed they had to ride downtown to change to a Strong Hospital bus.
By 1993 we were going to Strong Hospital. —That was my only break.
Four bus-lines on W. Main could lead to wrestling match.
What you were supposed to do, if in the lead, and fully loaded, was pass to your follower, who then made all the pick-ups along W. Main.
Determining if your leader was fully loaded was near impossible.
Buses still had rear windows at that time; now they don’t.
Your leader could stick it to you; pass up and make you do all the stops.
This is where Betty Mitchum comes in.
Betty was a really nice lady, but African-American, whereas I was just a honky white-boy.
Betty was doing the Chili Ave. yo-yo; me West Ave. and Genesee Park Blvd.
Betty would make four or five trips from downtown Rochester out Chili to the city limits, and then back.
I always hated yo-yos; stayed away from ‘em. (Short trips were no fun — although Betty had more seniority than me.)
I always looked for Betty as I came down Genesee Park Blvd.; she’d be off on a side-street, laying over before turning around.
Often if I was late, she had already left.
There began the race.
Betty was more direct on Chili, but busier.
I had the dog-leg, but few passengers.
So who would get to Main St. first?
If it was me, I’d take the lead and make all the stops.
If it was Betty, I’d follow, but signal her to pass up.
Betty always looked exasperated, like I was trying to stick her.
But I couldn’t have that; Betty was a really nice lady.

• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, somewhat from downtown. The Barns were large sheds the buses were parked inside. Regional Transit’s operations were conducted in buildings adjacent to the Barns. (We Transit-employes always said we worked outta “the Barns.”)
• “Genesee St.” and “Genesee Park” are both named after the “Genesee River,” a fairly large river that runs south-to-north across Western New York, goes through Rochester, including over falls, and empties into Lake Ontario.

This is for you, Brownie

My good friend David Brown tells me he enjoys reading my Transit blogs, e.g. my recent Transit Dream.
Brownie was a life-long employee of Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for RTS. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Dave Brown spent most of his employ in Transit management, although he started like me as a bus-driver.
Brownie was one of the good ones. Some managers were complete jerks, but not Brownie.
I abstained from Transit management myself; I don’t think I could have handled the politics.
I used to always say bus-driving was the best job at Transit; you were pretty much on-your-own.
I probably would have been a life-long employee myself, but a stroke intervened.
It was probably just as well; I was tiring of it.
After we moved out of Rochester I could no longer do the kind of work I had been doing.
Mainly school-work.
Transit supplied school-bus service with regular transit buses, mainly over established bus-routes.
School-work had the advantage that if it was off, you were off.
Yet you were still getting eight hours of pay per day guaranteed by contract, even though you were off.
For example, eight hours of pay for four-five hours of work.
Often your school-trip was hooked to a regular line-service trip, but I avoided those.
If school was off, I wanted the whole morning off.
One run I had was half school-work. If school was off, I got eight hours of pay for only four hours of work, all of which were in the afternoon.
But to do such work you had to live in Rochester.
For years I lived in Rochester, about five minutes from “the Barns,” the locus of Transit operations.
After moving out here to West Bloomfield, I was 45 minutes from the Barns. I had to work regular city line-service with no time off for school off.
Moving also scotched Park-and-Rides, carrying suburban working-stiffs to and from the city from the boondocks.
Park-and-Rides were rush-hour, so usually got scheduled with school-work.
Your morning assignment might be a Park-and-Ride, and your afternoon assignment might be school-work linked to line-service.
An example of this had 2105, a morning Park-and-Ride from Fairport, east of Rochester, hooked with school-work and regular line-service in the afternoon.


(Photo by BobbaLew.)

2105 was one of the best assignments I ever had.
Great passengers; they even gave me a party when I left.
2105 was one of our company’s first use of articulated buses, buses with two segments that hinged in the middle (see picture).
The front part had the motor, and a trailer was attached.
It was all one interior, with the two segments having a large accordion bellows between them.
People sitting in the back got to watch the front part angle into turns. (I never did.)
To me, our artics (“art-TIK”) were our best-riding buses, but you had to make allowances.
They were heavy and slow, and tricky to drive.
The trailer steered, so you had to avoid sharp right turns.
The trailer would step into the adjacent lane, and clout anyone beside you — unbeknownst to you.
I saw it happen once.
I was aware of this, so I always looked before making right turns.
I avoided right-turns, but if I couldn’t I looked to make sure no one was to the left of me.
If there was, I let them clear.
The artics were also awful in the snow.
A regular city-bus wasn’t; all that heavy motor weight was right over the drive-wheels.
I remember being amazed at how well they went.
Snow 18 inches deep, and we kept goin‘ — even on baldies.
Not so with an articulated.
Its motor wasn’t over the drive-wheels.
Its motor was under the floor in the middle of the front part.
With the least bit of snow, it spun its drive-wheels.
So Dave, this is for you......
Inbound from the end, the Fairport Park-and-Ride immediately goes through a low-rent apartment complex.
To exit, you had to navigate a private road.
It was never salted, rarely plowed, and included a steep hill.
So here I am with an artic, an icy hill in front of me.
It started spinning its drive-wheels.
I reversed to try again.
Backing an artic was a hairball — the trailer went where it wanted, not where you wanted.
I only backed about 10 feet, because the trailer was going onto the grass.
I started again, and the drive-wheels began spinning.
The spinning wheels would burn down through the ice to pavement, and advance about four inches.
Smoke was pouring off the tires, but we were about a third of the way up the hill.
We’d burn through the ice and advance about four inches.
Finally I called the radio.
“Woody, do you want me to keep doing this?” I asked. “The tires are smokin’ like a fuel dragster!”
“Keep goin’,” he said.
Took about 15 minutes (four inches at a time), but I made it.

• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, somewhat from downtown. The Barns were large sheds the buses were parked inside. Regional Transit’s operations were conducted in buildings adjacent to the Barns.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “Woody” was a radio dispatcher at Transit during my employ.

Transit dream

Fishbowl.

This morning’s (Wednesday, October 13, 2010) Transit dream was about the one thing I loathed more than anything else driving bus, a complete and utter cripple.
That is, a completely inoperable bus, stopped dead in its tracks.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Anything could render a bus inoperable, like complete lack of brakes.
The brakes operated by air-pressure; the air-compressor had to work, and the entire system not lose air.
Usually there were small air leaks here and there, but the compressor overcame them.
That is, you might hold 120 pounds of air-pressure despite a small air leak.
The buses rode on pressurized rubber air-bags — they were called “bellows,” and served as springs.
If your load got heavier on one side, the bellows would increase pressure to offset.
But of course, a bellows might have a tiny air leak, like where the rubber bonded to its steel mounting-plate.
Evidence of this was the bellows deflating overnight when the bus was off.
The bus would be on-the-ground in the morning, bottomed out until its bellows pumped up.
Sometimes a bellows might blow while driving, in which case your bus sagged to its knees at that corner.
Another problem was your transmission-fluid leaking out of your transmission.
So you pressed the accelerator and no movement. All it did was rev your engine.
Sometimes this would be sudden, other times slow; that is, your bus would operate until there wasn’t enough tranny-fluid.
If it was sudden, you usually gushed tranny-fluid all over the pavement, in which case an on-road mechanic showed up with Quik-Dry.
I had that happen once, but in a parking-lot.
My bus gushed tranny-fluid all over when a fitting popped loose.
The mechanic was able to repair the fitting, and got me going a half-hour late.
I wasn’t filled in; “driver’s fault,” as always.
Other problems were “hot engine” or “lo oil.”
Some of our GM buses had protective circuitry that shut off the bus if you got either indication.
But that was a hairball — the indicator might be defective.
Other buses could continue operation despite a “hot-engine” or “lo oil” indication.
I preferred these, since what happened in either case was the on-road mechanic would show to add oil or water.
With the non-protected buses I wasn’t crippled; I could keep operating.
I wasn’t at the mercy of some wonky sensor.
What motivated me more than anything was that I had been a bus-passenger in the late ‘60s, and if there was anything I hated as a passenger it was a crippled bus.
Often I had to change buses along a route. That was okay, perhaps five minutes lost.
But a complete cripple made you wait at least 15 minutes until a replacement showed up.
And often there was no explanation; the driver didn’t say anything.
Not this kid.
If my bus crippled, I told my passengers why.
And I was doing anything I could to keep going.
I used to carry my own tools.
I wasn’t being waylaid by floppy windshield-wipers or a floppy mirror.
One time I was driving along in a snow-burst, and my wipers started flopping.
I sprung outside with my vice-grips and fixed ‘em.
I wasn’t about to strand my passengers.
The mechanics would have had a fit I was fixing these things myself, but I wasn’t waiting 15 minutes until they showed up — that had happened to me when I rode bus.
So my dream was driving good old 604 bus, a fishbowl (above), down a main street in Rochester.
It got dark; no street-lights.
I noticed my headlights weren’t on, so I hit the switch.
No lights (gasp).
Here I am about to turn onto Main St. in Rochester, and I can’t see a thing.
I had this happen to me once in a bus; hit the dimmer-switch to turn on my hi-beams, and nothing.
Pitch dark, 35 mph, out in the country.
I hit the dimmer-switch feverishly; at least I still had lo-beams.
I could keep operating.
But nothing-at-all with 604 bus.
I got ‘er stopped; “The driver is panicking,” a passenger said.
“No lights,” I said. “I ain’t got nuthin at all.”
Electrical problems are what I feared most; our mechanics always seemed buffaloed by electrical problems.
You might write up a bus for some minor electrical problem, and they’d try something until, for example, the errant light came on.
Things might be wired wrong, but it came on, didn’t it?
One time a bus caught fire because a giant amperage was being channeled through a small wire, it overheated, and caught fire.
I got 604 pulled over and called the radio to report I couldn’t operate.
Radioing a problem was often fearsome; your problem might get misunderstood.
“Take it on to Main St.; we’ll change you off there.”
Uh, yeah Woody; I’m supposed to drive out onto Main St. when I can’t see a thing — blind as a bat.
I then have to explain my problem to the radio; in which case I get called a stupid and difficult ne’er-do-well.

• “Tranny” equals transmission. Our buses were all automatic-transmission.
• RE: “Filled in......” —An extra bus “filled in” your departure time.
• RE: “Change-off......” —A second bus was sent to replace the one you had.
• “Woody” was a radio dispatcher at Transit during my employ.

Ceiling-fans

Over the 20 years we’ve lived in this house, most of our rooms have had bare bulbs.
We had specced ceiling-fans for each room, but the cost of our house was escalating out of sight, so we installed only one ceiling-fan.
All the other rooms were set up and supposedly wired for ceiling-fans, but we decided we’d install them later.
That is, the bare-bulb fixtures were in circuit-boxes tied to ceiling joists; i.e. the circuit-boxes could support ceiling-fans.
The one ceiling-fan we installed had two circuits; one for the light, and one for the fan.
Apparently all the other rooms were wired with only one circuit, which was okay, since current ceiling-fans have two internal pull-switches; one for the light, and one for the fan.
Our house was constructed brand-new in 1989.
It’s a special design we designed ourselves.
It’s super-insulated with foot-thick exterior walls.
It’s extravagantly insulated with 23 (I think) inches of blown fiberglass insulation atop the eight-foot interior ceilings.
I.e. no cathedral ceilings — which waste heat.
There isn’t much heat-load.
With all that insulation, most of the heat stays inside.
We aren’t heating the outdoors.
Same with cooling.
We don’t have to turn on the central air-conditioning until mid-June.
Outdoor temperatures have frequently already exceeded 80 degrees.
Our house was built by a contractor I felt I could work with.
It wasn’t built by us.
I was intimately involved in its construction.
Quite often it was me and the contractor working out construction details.
The plywood shell still has Magic-Marker lines I marked inside to explain how the double-wall was to be built.
I don’t know as our contractor made much money building our house, but I saw him driving a new pickup truck later.
Ours was the last house he ever built.
He was always too accommodating, unlike other contractors who would tell you to get stuffed.
We also owned what he had built.
We weren’t buying a finished house from him. We were paying him as he went along.
I.e. we owned the house and land.
Usually it’s the contractor who owns the house and land.
In which case he can sell to someone else.
Beyond that he was a poor manager.
His crew could be lazy layabouts.
We got running reports from our neighbor-to-be about the crew sitting and doing nothing.
We or he would show up and his crew would spring into action.
Only one guy on his crew was conscientious.
Our house is mainly him, that is the finish-details therein.
The contractor’s electrician was a youngish dude who had done stuff for him before.
I specced all the wiring to avoid costly wiring later.
There was confusion.
Our overhead porch-light only works from the garage; the switch inside our house turns on a flood.
A lot of the lights have multiple switches, so they can be turned on from both ends of a room.
Or off from bedside.
We had specced five ceiling-fans, but could only afford one.
So we had four unused ceiling-fan fixtures.
A stroke intervened making post-construction finishing of our house almost impossible.
We were going to finish our porch-decking ourselves, plus build a deck and steps behind our house.
I had built a deck at our old house in Rochester.
The porch deck got finished before my stroke, but the railing still had to be done.
Doing so became one of my stroke rehabilitation projects; it involved extravagant analysis — brain-work.
I managed to pull it off successfully; it doesn’t look like it was built by a stroke-survivor.
It came out so well the stroke rehab place had a picture of it up for some time; an example of my so-called “miraculous” recovery.
To my mind it was more orneriness, wanting it to look professional.
A while ago we had a contractor install steps off our back porch.
It looks okay, but compared to what I did it’s a cheap-shot.
The rungs are side-nailed; mine are direct.
And I had to pre-drill the nail-holes so the rungs wouldn’t split.
Some of the side-nailed rungs are split.
I scoped out ceiling-fans on the Internet.
Hunter Fans has a site.
Our single fan was a Hunter; it looked great.
Supposedly Hunter makes the best ceiling-fans.
I went to Mighty Lowes in Canandaigua to check out their ceiling-fans.
They had Hunter, as well as 89 bazilyun other brands.
As always, the old stroke waazoo always applies; difficulty interacting with people — in this case the salesman.
“I need to talk to someone about ceiling-fans,” I said.
“Well that would be me.”
I’d managed to ask the head of hardware.
“I need four fans,” I said. “One 52-inch and three 44-inch.”
The project would be an “install.” Apparently a Lowes-authorized contractor would come out and install the fans.
“We’ll first need to inspect the circuit-boxes, if they can support ceiling-fans.”
“I think they were specified for that,” I said; “but I’m not sure. That was 20 years ago.”
“Our contractor will call.”
One did, but abstained from the inspection which only paid $35.
“I can’t afford it,” he said.
A second contractor called, claiming he could do the inspection for only $35.
“All I hafta do is look at one box.”
He came, but I hit him with two other projects; “if you can.”
One was to replace all our outdoor fixtures, which were rusty, and second was to replace a broken fluorescent fixture over our cellar stairway.
That cellar fixture is so hard to get at, I’d let an electrician do it.
Replacing that single fixture might cost 89 bazilyun dollars.
I figured it would cost way less if my ceiling-fan electrician did it.
Including the fans, the four outdoor fixtures, plus the cellar fixture, is nine installs in one visit.
Start piecing it out one visit per fixture, and it costs a fortune.
So we ordered everything at Mighty Lowes, and the other day (Saturday, October 9, 2010) their electrician came to install.
My wife likes it; “for once we don’t look like a hospital.”
$1,561.99 charged to our credit-card.
“I’m trying to do all these things before you expire, if it’s you first,” I said.
My wife has cancer, although it’s supposedly manageable.
She doesn’t look or act like she has cancer.
We’re both 66, which surprises people.

• “We” (“our”) is me and my wife of almost 43 years, “Linda.”
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• “Mighty Lowes” is Lowes, a nationwide home-supply chain. They have a large store in Canandaigua. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)

What in the wide, wide world

In the Summer of 1962, shortly after I graduated high-school, I was a student at nearby Houghton College’s (“HO-tin;” as in “oh,” not “ow” or “who”) Summer-school.
An entire semester of college work was compressed into three weeks. I was to do six weeks, the equivalent of two semesters.
I had to do this to be accepted into the college, to prove I could do college-level work.
There were about 15 of us, and I think all succeeded. In fact, most of us, including me, went on to earn college degrees.
I’ve never regretted it, even though I graduated as somewhat a ne’er-do-well, not approved by the college.
They were probably glad to be rid of me; I was always poking fun at them.
A few dropped out as freshmen.
There was a motivating factor.
Succeed or ’Nam.
Boys who failed lost their college deferment.
Succeed or get drafted into the ‘Nam quagmire.
Houghton had a tiny radio-station, WJSL, 12 watts AM.
I’m not sure of that 12-watt number, but it was puny.
The transmitter was a tiny appurtenance on the floor of the studio.
Hardly a tower-of-power, but make sure it’s switched on.
The station was barely receivable at town limits.
I had been corralled into being an occasional announcer on WJSL.
Although I admit I was somewhat interested.
I doubt I would have if I wasn’t.
I played mainly classical music, the format of WJSL anyway.
One afternoon I was playing the conclusion of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, over-and-over.
Bells and cannon-blasts.
It was on vinyl record.
I’d cue it up and air it again.
Finally the college security-person strode into my studio.
He was probably my only listener.
“Do you have anything else?” he asked.
What prompted that memory was that Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi, the publicly-supported classical music radio-station out of Rochester we listen to, aired Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain” this morning (Monday, October 12, 2010).
The announcer is a really nice lady, a Houghton-grad, who replaced the infamous Simon Pontin (“PAHN-tin”) when he retired, WXXI’s morning-man about 30 years.
“What in the wide, wide world is she doing playing ‘Night on Bald Mountain’ at the crack of dawn?” I exclaimed.
“Pontin would never do that.”
It’s as strident as an alarm-clock.

• “Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi” is WXXI.

Keyboard man......

....versus string man.
Yrs trly has nine years of classical piano training.
It was drudgery. Arpeggios and Muzio Clementi.
As such I’m a keyboard man.
W-X-X-I, the publicly-supported classical music radio-station out of Rochester we listen to, played a violin concerto this morning (Monday, October 11, 2010).
“Not this kid!” I thought.
“That’s string music. I’m a keyboard man, harpsichords and pianos and pipe-organs.”
My hairdresser has an Android smartphone.
He has an app that displays virtual strings.
Strum it, and guitar-strings sound.
Ugh!
I’m not impressed. I’m a keyboard man.
That always directs my musical tastes.
Keyboard concertos always seem doable — or so it seems.
Order is at work too.
The keys play certain definable tone frequencies.
That was not true of a violin fretboard.
The tone-frequency emitted is a function of where you fingered the string.
You could be sharp or flat. (Your ear would tell you.)
A keyboard wasn’t that way.
Keys sounded specific tones; you were never sharp or flat.
Unless your instrument was out of tune.
But that wasn’t your fault — it wasn’t a function of where you fingered.
Bring in the piano-tuner.
A keyboard could also be stroked much faster than strings — or so it seemed.
It took a Jascha Heifetz to play arpeggios on a violin.
But even the average dolt, like me, could do arpeggios on a piano.
Ya need Yo-Yo Ma to convey emotion out of a cello, but even I could convey emotion with a Steinway D-10 concert-grand — at least to myself.

“You’re gonna hafta run, Bob”

“You’ll hafta run, Bob.” (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Another trip to the Mighty Curve near Altoona, PA (“al-TUNE-uh;” as in the name “Al”), by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to.
But it may be a trip to the Mighty Curve without the Mighty Curve.
We’ll get here about 4 p.m. Add a half-hour to check in at Tunnel Inn Bed & Breakfast, and we’d get to the Curve about 4:30-4:45; just short of closing-time.
And by that time in October it’s starting to get dark.
The Curve is a great railfan spot, scenic and loaded with close-up action. You’re right smack in the apex of the Curve, and trains are fairly frequent.
Wait 20 minutes and you’ll see a train.
But it’s not very photogenic.
I’ve taken hundreds of photos there, and hardly any ever worked.
Photography never does the place justice — you hafta see it yourself — a giant amphitheater.
It was a trick by the Pennsylvania Railroad to cross the Allegheny mountain barrier without steep grades.
The railroad was looped back across a valley to stretch it out.
It’s the same alignment laid out in 1854, although now it’s Norfolk Southern. Pennsy is gone.
It’s now a national historic site.
In 1854 Allegheny Crossing was an engineering marvel.
And since it’s a hill, anything climbing is wide-open; assaulting the heavens!
All you do is sit at the picnic-tables and wait for trains.
I’ve done it so much it’s become boring.
There are so many other spots worth visiting.
All (almost all) were introduced by Phil Faudi (”FOW-dee;” as in “wow”).
Faudi was the railfan extraordinaire from Altoona, who supplied all-day train-chases for $125. —I did one two years ago, alone, and it blew my mind.
Faudi had his rail-scanner along, tuned to 160.8, the Norfolk Southern operating channel, and knew the whereabouts of every train, as the engineers called out the signals, and various lineside defect-detectors fired off.
He knew each train by symbol, and knew all the back-roads, and how long it took to get to various photo locations — and also what made a successful photo — lighting, drama, etc.
I let Phil do the monitoring. I have a scanner myself, but left it behind.
Phil knew every train on the scanner, where it was, and how long it took to beat it to a prime photo location.
It’s gotten so these trips have to be wedged in.
Pick a time about two months in advance, and from then on say Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of that week we’ll be out of town, so we can’t do anything those days; e.g. medical appointments.
The YMCA Exercise-Gym is Monday, Wednesday and Friday, so the Mighty Curve can scotch one day.
I already did the YMCA Monday. I’ll see if I can do it Friday after we return.
Saturday a guy is coming to install ceiling fans and outdoor fixtures.
We also have to find time to walk our beloved dog.
Mornings are two-three hours, afternoons are 45 minutes, and the last about 15-20 minutes.
She’s a very high-energy dog. We’re committed to giving her a good time.
The morning walk is in a nearby park, the second walk is up-the-street and our fenced part, and the last walk is just our fenced part.
Therein she’s loose.
I also have to mow our HUGE lawn.
I mowed everything else, but ran out of time.
I hope it can wait until Saturday.
The whole idea of this trip was to get fall foliage pictures, but it looks like we’re too early.
Some trees are turned, but everything is still pretty green.
I guess ya hafta live here to get good fall foliage pictures.
Picking dates two months in advance is a gamble.
264 miles, portal-to-portal. (Garage to Tunnel Inn.)
Perhaps a half-mile of that was a short detour circumventing a closed on-ramp in Williamsport from Route 15 to 220.
Five hours.
We drove in our CR-V, now seven years old.
No problems; seven years old, but as recently deceased Art Dana (“DAY-nuh”) said, “looks like new.”
Art was the retired bus-driver from Regional Transit with fairly severe Parkinson's disease.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Art's wife was gone, so he lived with his sister in Pittsford. He was 69.
Art and I had similar interests, hot-rod cars and trains.


Train 25Z climbs Track 3 at Slope Interlocking. (Photo by BobbaLew)

Day Two:
So ends another Faudi train-chase, our last, because Faudi is gonna give it up.
His reasons are:
—A) His car, a newish and very nice Buick, which he doesn’t beat like his old Buick, which limits some of our photo locations, which are on dirt-tracks.
—B) His exposure to possible liability suits.
Recently a lady fell or something, and nothing came of it, but it made him worry.
Chasing trains also involves ramming around in your car prompting adventurous maneuvers of incredible daring-do.
Faudi is sensible, but various traffic situations make him nervous.
It was what I dealt with driving bus, trying to maintain a schedule despite all the madness around you.
People cutting you off, and trying to beat the bus.
“Oh look Dora. A bus. Pull out! Pull out!”
Throw in trying to see every possible train, and driving becomes a rat-race.
Faudi is the same age as us.
You can’t drive at that fever-pitch all the time.
Plus his Adventure-Tours had become too much a business.


Two SD40E helper-units lead a train down past Alto Tower. (Photo by BobbaLew)

“I just almost got hit,” he said.
He had left us on 17th St. bridge in Altoona to take a photo with Alto (“al-TOE;” as in the name “Al”) Tower in it.
He had gone to a nearby McDonald's for a potty-break.
We were walking down off the bridge, and no Faudi.
Yet here he comes up 17th St.
“I saw you guys walking back, so I hurried to make my turn. and almost got clobbered,” he said.
“Ya don’t need to, Phil,” we said.
“These are the things that make me nervous,” he said.
Fall foliage was out-the-window — we were too early.
So a simple train-chase.
“You’ll hafta run, Bob,” he said, as we pulled into Bellwood, a photo-location on a footbridge.
I’m not Lance Armstrong, but I got it (lead picture).
I had indeed run — I still can.
The train was in sight as I ran onto the bridge.
Everything we shot was north (railroad east) of Altoona, not Allegheny Crossing.
Okay with me; north of Altoona are some of the best locations.
E.g. Plummer’s Crossing, east of Tyrone.
But that’s a westbound — no westbounds coming.
Also, “Six Targets,” one of my most photogenic locations.


Train 14G (monstrously late on the siding) comes under the six target-signals in McFarland’s Curve. (Photo by BobbaLew)

“I hafta be able to find this place,” I said.
It’s up a short dirt-track off the old Route 220.
Our Adventure-Tour had diverted into finding various photo-locations on-my-own.
E.g. “Six Targets” and Slope Interlocking.


Helper-units downhill at Slope Interlocking. (Photo by BobbaLew)

Almost all of the photo locations are doable.
The west side of Allegheny Crossing I already know fairly well.
Plus the only location extraordinarily worth doing on the west slope, the Viaduct Overlook, gobbles over an hour.
North of Altoona is fairly productive; about five-six locations.
And west of Allegheny summit would probably have been drenching rain. It’s up in the hills.
North of Altoona was dry.


A coal-extra approaching the Tipton grade-crossing. (Photo by BobbaLew)

Most of what I hear on the scanner any more makes fairly good sense.
What I know is defect-detectors — where they are.
What I need to know, which Phil knows, are -a) the location of signal-towers, and -b) train symbols.
The engineers of trains call out signal-aspects on radio as a train approaches.
Which is how Phil knows a train is coming, and where it is.
The engineers also say what track they are on, as do the defect-detectors.
Phil also knows what scheduled trains are coming, and when (if on time).
With all that in my head, I could successfully chase trains in Altoona.
Phil was a good teacher.
But I still doubt my wait-times would be as short as his.


Train 14G (again) approaches Slope Interlocking on Track One. (Photo by BobbaLew)

His knowledge is reflected in the success we have, but in my case it’s coming.
I can usually make sense of what I hear on the scanner, and I more-or-less know where things are.
I didn’t before.
Waiting out in the cold a long time for nothing is less likely, and I could probably chase trains myself fairly successfully.
He also mentioned Cassandra Railfan Overlook is doomed.
A piece of concrete fell off the ancient overpass and damaged a locomotive.
The caretaker can’t afford to repair the bridge, so the railroad wants to remove it.
A tragedy.
Cassandra Railfan Overlook was a wonderfully shady spot to watch trains.
And it was between two defect-detectors.
But to get to it, ya need that bridge.


RoadRailer west through downtown Altoona. (Photo by BobbaLew)

So here I am, on-my-own.
Can I match Faudi?
I think not.
But I’ve learned a lot, and will do better.
I advanced quite a bit when I figured out where the defect-detectors were, and which track was which.
Add the signal-locations, and we’ll do much better.
I also know the photo-locations, but can we beat that train we just heard to a certain location, or should we try further up the line?
Doing so might add 10-15 minutes to a wait-time, or miss the train altogether.
Not that I care that much, but I would like to do better.
What’s ironic is I know Norfolk Southern’s Allegheny Crossing near Altoona better than the CSX Water-Level near where we live.
There I have no clue at all. —No Faudi; start from scratch.
Faudi said this was my sixth train-chase; I guessed fifth.
We wish him well; he will be missed. —And I’m sure I’m not the only one.

Day Three; back to reality.
But not without exploring first.
Can I find Six-Targets, and Slope, and 6th Ave. north out of Altoona?
Slope was a slam-dunk.
I happened to drive Walnut St. after 31st St., which as it approached downtown Altoona going north turns west right over that bridge over Slope Interlocking.
31st St. I know. I use it to get to Brickyard Crossing.
I then went east on 24th St. following what looked like the same route Faudi took, destination 6th Ave. north.
Sixth Ave. was also a slam-dunk.
I turned north on the streets that are Route 764 toward downtown Altoona.
They eventually intersect 17th St., the main drag into Altoona from the east.
Instead of turning west toward downtown Altoona, I turned east, and then north toward the Railroader’s Memorial Museum.
It looked like the same route Faudi had taken.
After the museum I turned east again, toward 6th Ave.
Then north on 6th Ave., just like Phil had done.
We followed 6th far north of town, but missed a turn toward the old 220.
I could have taken old 220 north too, but Faudi always used 6th Ave. because it was closer to the tracks.
Six-Targets was the hairball; we drove by its secret entrance at least four times.
The secret entrance is a fairly-well hidden dirt-track between buildings the railroad uses as a service-road.
But the road also crosses the tracks, so it may be a farm-road.
It’s just off old 220, near an amusement-park to the south, and just south of the Grazierville (“Gray-zher-VILL”) exit off I-99.
We paraded up the old 220 to a giant truss-bridge where the tracks cross under the highway.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “That puts the tracks on the wrong side (east of 220); they’re supposed to be west.”
We turned around, heading south on old 220, past Tipton (and its amusement-park), all the way to the road into Bellwood.
“I forget the order of things,” I said. “Six-Targets north or south of the Tipton crossing.....
Far as I know, that secret dirt-track is north of Tipton, and just south of the Grazierville Exit.”
North on 220 again, to just short of the truss-bridge.
Back south, but turned west onto McFarland Road.
That’s because Six-Targets is on the railroad’s McFarland’s Curve.
“But that secret entrance is off the old 220,” I said.
Back south on 220; turned north at the amusement-park.
“That entrance is just south of the Grazierville Exit,” I said.
“I bet we’re near it,” Linda said.
Headed north again we passed a Ford dealership.
“Do you remember that?” Linda asked.
“No, but I remember that baby-blue Mustang in the lot with the trick wheels,” I answered.
Back south, and headed toward Tipton and the amusement-park.
Finally, “I bet that’s it!”
We had just passed the secret entrance.
Around again, and in we went.
Up the rocky dirt-track Faudi is a little afraid of doing because his Buick is a car, and doesn’t have the ground-clearance of our CR-V.
All the way up the road, and there it was; the Six-Targets signal-bridge.
We could go home.
It’s not that hard to find, now that I know where it is.
But we also tried Plummer’s Crossing, east of Tyrone, where the railroad turns east toward Harrisburg.
Plummer’s Crossing is a fabulous shot of a westbound.
But nothing yet — nothing was coming.
No more Faudi. I have to be able to find Plummer’s myself, and can.
Now all I hafta do is make sense of what’s on my scanner.
So I don’t have to wait hours.
That’s within range.

Reflections:
—1) As is commonly the case, this trip was the first time this season I wore long-underwear.


Train 22W booms through Altoona toward the 8th St. bridge. (Photo by BobbaLew)

There was a frigid breeze on the 8th St. bridge.
The weather was lousy; cloudy and cold, but at least not raining — or not raining down in the valley where we were.
There wasn’t enough light.
I had the camera on auto-exposure, which renders a shutter-speed so slow the fronts of trains were often blurred.
E.g. my lead picture, “Run,” up top.
I should have had my camera on “shutter-priority,” at least 1/200th, or cranked up the ISO.
—2) I was able to do the YMCA the following Friday. In fact, I mowed the backyard the Thursday afternoon after we got back home.
—3) We purchased Tasty-Kake® chocolate cupcakes at the Foy Ave. Sunoco in Williamsport on the way down — but only because they had them.
A mistake.
Tasty-Kake® chocolate cupcakes were a favorite staple when I was growing up.
They’re only available around Philadelphia.
All they are is a layer of chocolate icing on leaden cupcakes; probably done by a machine.
I have since learned that real baking is much better (i.e. my wife).
The Tasty-Kakes were like lead.
My mother never baked.
As reputable as they are, they’re not worth getting.
—4) Gallitzin (“guh-LIT-zin”), PA, the Allegheny Summit town Tunnel-Inn is in, was in mourning.
The entire town was decorated with yellow ribbons, and EMS and fire personnel were everywhere blocking streets.
Apparently a young Gallitzin Marine had just been killed in Afghanistan.
His body was at a funeral-home.
A horrible waste.
Faudi made a comment, but I try to avoid politics and religion lest I destroy good friendships.
—5) We never visited the Mighty Curve at all.
In fact, we never used my scanner, except during my exploring.
—6) This train-chase was probably the least successful, mainly because of the weather.
Too cloudy and dark.
I suppose it had to happen sometime.
All previous Faudi-gigs were perfect weather, sunny without a cloud in the sky.
The only exception was last February, but that was snow-squalls, with the sun breaking through occasionally.
Perfect winter conditions.


My last Faudi picture; Amtrak’s westbound “Pennsylvanian” approaching the Bellwood footbridge about 5 p.m. (Photo by BobbaLew)

—7) This train-chase was also sad.
My last train-chase with Faudi.
I feel I made a friend, a fellow train-nut like myself.
The guy he chased trains with the day before was also at Tunnel Inn, and he suggested he drive his own car, and pay Faudi to direct him.
I don’t know as that would interest me, as my intent was always to chase trains myself.
On the other hand, Faudi and I hit some fabulous spots in that old Buick of his, and I’d hate to have him miss out because of that great car he has now.
My CR-V has gobs more ground-clearance, so won’t bottom on forest tracks.
I also am not that concerned about shrubbery scratching the paint, and doubt it would anyway.